To The Lighthouse
by springburn
Summary: Randall Brown has left The Hour, and Bel doesn't know why, he has retired from the world completely. Lix has also moved on. Freddie died from the beating he received at the end of Series Two. A year has passed and Bel is seeking him out, with a television offer.
1. Chapter 1

A story inspired by my holiday visit to Cornwall.  
This is going to be very much an old fashioned story. It is the late fifties, the days when couples 'were courting' or 'walking out'. If Randall was 50 at the end of the fifties, he would have been born before the First World War. At the time of the Spanish Civil War and the beginning of World War Two he would already be 30. Bel would have been roughly 10 in 1939. I have always imagined the young Randall as looking like Claude, in the Poirot story, 'Wasp's Nest', which Peter starred in, and was set in about 1937. (He was roughly the right age too).  
Anna Chancellor played Virginie in the Poirot story, 'The Chocolate Box' set round about the same time, and her right age in real life, to be the model for the young Lix.

Randall Brown has left The Hour, and Bel doesn't know why, he has retired from the world completely. Lix has also moved on. Freddie died from the beating he received at the end of Series Two. A year has passed and Bel is seeking him out, with a television offer.

TO THE LIGHTHOUSE.

CHAPTER ONE. THE MEETING.

Bel turned off the main road, heading for the remote headland. She wound through the little Cornish villages, houses made of local stone, with pretty twee gardens, full of flowers in front of each one. A rusty signpost, which she almost missed, pointed to a track on the right. It was barely wide enough for her Morris, with shale stone walls topped with a gnarled hedge on either side. Tufts of thrift and speedwell bobbed in the strong breeze, and here and there, lazy sheep cropped the grass or sheltered close to the walls. Honking her horn they scattered in all directions as she passed. Hoping she didn't meet another car coming the other way, she honked again, as she reached a blind bend. But there was nothing coming, no one ever came up this god forsaken pot holed track, in the middle of nowhere. God, she hoped her motor didn't break down out here, she'd never see the light of day again.  
Off to the left now was a sheer drop, onto the ruined remains of old quarry. Dark granite boulders marked the roads edge. She could see the top of the light tower now, painted brilliant white against the blue of the sky. The stiff breeze whipped up the waves below, hurling them against the rocks. Sea birds hung, effortlessly, as if suspended on wire, just above the headland, the mew and cry they gave, like a woman's scream.  
Rounding a last bend, she came across an iron gate, straddling the road. Stopping the car, she jumped out and propped it open, before driving through.  
The track opened out into a wide courtyard, paved in the same dark stone. Two small cottages, one on either side of the lighthouse, seeming to cling to the rock ledge, looking directly out over the boiling sea.  
Why had she agreed to come here? She must be mad. It was a fools quest, and she knew how things would pan out, before she even walked up to the doorway.

The green painted door opened to her knock. From inside she could hear the deep barking, of what sounded like a large dog.  
And there he was, standing on the threshold, his long fingers curled around the side of the door. He hadn't changed much. Hair still combed back from his forehead, slick and neat. Dark rimmed glasses, perched on his beaky nose. Perhaps he looked a little thinner, more gaunt, but otherwise, much the same.  
He regarded her impassively with his bright blue grey eyes, and stood back to allow her to enter.  
Gone was the crisp suit, the tie with the neat Windsor knot, the starched white shirt. Instead he wore slacks and a fine knit collared sweater.

Randall Brown, once renowned in television circles, highly regarded by those who worked alongside him, the man to whom most others deferred, the place where the buck stopped, now had the air of someone defeated, or deflated...or both.  
The mystery surrounding his leaving The Hour, had been the topic of conversation for many a week. No one really knew what happened. He was there...then he wasn't.  
Lix Storm, whom Bel thought she knew well, had disappeared almost as quickly, a few weeks previously. Not a word had been said. One morning, she just didn't turn up for work, and that was that. Speculation was rife, that something was going on between them, but Bel wasn't sure she believed it. Randall just didn't seem Lix's type somehow. He was so quiet, so reserved, so uptight. But what did she know?

Bel herself, no longer worked for The Hour. Somehow, after Freddie's death, her heart was no longer in it. Many months passed before she really felt that she was either ready or able to move on. She now worked on a new style Magazine programme, which had proven very popular, but Freddie was always at the back of her mind. An opportunity missed, a chance wasted. She hadn't dated anyone since.

"Nice to see you again, Randall."  
He gave a curious half smile, as he ushered her inside. The cottage was small, with an oddly shaped three corner kitchen, and tiny bathroom. Up two steps, a door opened onto a dining room, and through to a living room with a dark brown leather suite and a wood burning stove, and two bedrooms. The place was impossibly neat and tidy. Every book in its place, arranged in height order on the shelf. Chairs evenly spaced around the table. Cushions on the chairs placed just so.  
"Tea?" he enquired with a slight raise of one eyebrow.  
Bel took a seat, and he shortly brought in a tray, laid with a white linen cloth, tea cups and saucers, milk jug, sugar bowl and a brown earthenware tea pot.  
"So, how have you been?" She watched his exquisite hands, as he arranged the tea things, and poured, using a silver tea strainer.  
"Oh, you know," she replied, shrugging her shoulders in a noncommittal way, as she did not really have an answer.  
"They've sent me to make you an offer," she continued, "they would like you..."  
"I'm not interested! " he cut her off mid sentence," you've had a wasted trip, you've come all this way for nothing."  
"You haven't heard the offer yet, it's a generous one."  
"I'm still not interested!" He replied curtly.  
"How do you even survive here, all alone, after being used to so many people around you?"  
She said, changing the subject. Her eyes sweeping the room.  
"It suits me." He handed her the tea.  
Taking a seat opposite her, his long legs somehow folded to one side, his saucer resting in his open palm, he regarded her with an expression of polite enquiry.  
She looked a little older perhaps, certainly less fresh and carefree as she had once. Figure a little rounder and fuller than before. Blonde tresses tamed into a neat French pleat. Still beautiful. She was aware of his quiet scrutiny, but said nothing. Sipping her tea noiselessly.  
He mused on a scolding that Lix had once given him. On hearing him tell her not to work too late, she had admonished him...  
"Old enough to be her father Randall..."  
He smiled slightly to himself at the memory.  
A whine and scratching sounded, from somewhere outside.  
"Excuse me a moment."  
He rose with a graceful ease from the armchair, placing his cup and saucer on the low table with careful deliberation. Moments later a black labrador dog bounded into the room, tail wagging in excitement. At a word from his master, the hound lay down beside the armchair obediently, Randall resumed his seat.  
"I received the letter," he remarked.  
"But you didn't reply," Bel said, "that's why I was sent."  
"You're not even on the telephone," she continued, " you are a difficult man to contact and even more difficult to find."  
"That's the way I like it." His hand reached down to fondle the dog's soft ears as he spoke,  
"I don't want to be found. I want to be left alone. That's why I came here to live. I'm sorry but you've wasted your time."  
"Don't be, it isn't my time, as such. I'm just the messenger! I told them you wouldn't be interested...but...!"  
She finished her tea, and rose to leave.  
"It was nice to see you again Randall. Take good care of yourself."  
She held out her hand and he took it briefly, fingers clasping hers lightly, thumb soft against the side of her own. The touch was electric, and she withdrew as if burned.  
She raised her eyes to his, ice blue meeting steely grey, she gave him a shy smile.  
"I'm staying in the area for a few days, if you change your mind and want to talk. Here is the address of my hotel." She handed him a small card, and turned to leave.  
"I won't change my mind," he said quietly, "but I may come and see you."  
For a moment Bel was caught off guard by this curve ball, but she rallied quickly.  
"You do that!"  
She turned away, walking rapidly to her car. He crossed the courtyard, the dog following close at his heels, and opened the gate for her, standing aside as she drove through. She watched the languid ease of his walk, he looked taller and leaner than she remembered, and somehow more angular and handsome. She waved as she passed him, but he did not respond. In her rear view mirror, he shut the gate behind her, calling the dog to his side, he returned to the house, without looking back.

As the crow flies, Bel's hotel was only a couple of miles from the Lighthouse, in fact, at night, she could see its beam, endlessly sweeping across the sea, from her window. By land and the narrow Cornish lanes it was more like five or six miles.  
The weather was fine, but the wind seemed to blow ceaselessly, giving an uncomfortable nip to the air. Taking her morning coffee out onto a sheltered terrace, she sat alone staring into the distance.  
A wide expanse of yellow sand formed a bay here, which curved around in a crescent, disappearing away to the left and right. It was early in the year for holidaymakers. There were very few people about at this hour anyway.  
She spotted the dog first. A black shape, loping along the strand, running out to the waters edge, before turning and running back again. The tide was low, leaving rock pools and seaweed covered granite exposed to the elements. He rounded the cove moments later, walking with his long, confident stride. Tall and very upright, unmistakeable. The dog returned to his side, carrying a piece of driftwood, which it presented to its master. Randall threw with a powerful swinging motion, and the dog pelted away across the mud to retrieve it.  
As he drew level with her, he turned his head. Bel raised her hand to him. He checked his pace, then came towards her.  
The wind ruffled his hair slightly, was there a little more silver there now? It was difficult to tell. Certainly his cheeks had less pallor than before. While he was not exactly tanned , he'd lost that deathly pale tinge, that, when they'd worked together, made her think he seldom saw daylight.  
"Join me?" She waved her hand towards the adjacent chair.  
With the slightest twitch of his mouth, he took the proferred seat. Patting his thigh, the dog, still with the wooden stick, tail wagging joyfully, lay down at his feet.  
"What's his name?" She enquired.  
"Winston."  
The dog raised its head on hearing its name, and he rubbed the soft hair there.  
She ordered more coffee, and he leaned back in his wicker chair, stretching his legs out in front of him, feet crossed, sighing gently.  
"So nothing will make you consider the offer then?"  
"You'd be your own boss, able to hire and fire. Maximum authority."  
To Bel's surprise, he tilted back his head and laughed. She'd never heard him laugh before, not so much as a chuckle, always so tight lipped, so...so...controlled.  
But here he was, laughing heartily. Removing his glasses to wipe an eye, head slightly to one side, he looked at her.  
"All the more reason to decline! I have all the authority I need right here, here I do as I please. No one bothers me, and that's the way I like it!"  
" Did you need to become a recluse, to find that? Shutting yourself away down here. Why did you do it, Randall? You went so suddenly...I missed you." She ended lamely.  
"Yes, I regret that," he stroked his forehead thoughtfully.  
"So many things happened all at once. My mother passed away, I inherited everything, it was a substantial amount. Then Freddie and...other things. I didn't want any of it any more, Bel. I needed solitude, I needed renewal, I wanted time to reflect...so I came here, and I found I liked it. So I stayed."  
"Well, I think it's a waste. A waste of your life." She huffed.  
"You say that because you are young, and have your life ahead of you..."  
"Right...and you are so old, Methuselah and your life is over?"  
"Old enough to be your father! " He said, almost under his breath, that slight smile a whisper across his lips.  
"What's that supposed to mean?" Her eyebrows arched.  
"Oh, nothing! Just something someone said to me once!"  
Belle folded her arms across her chest and glared at him.  
"You could give so much, you could DO so much..."  
"But not there Bel, not that life, not anymore. My priorities have changed, I don't need that power anymore. I think maybe your priorities have changed too."  
He looked at her, face soft and kindly.  
"Do you have some sensible footwear?" He asked suddenly.  
She raised her eyebrows.  
"There's a little place, down the coast aways, that I've found, I'd like to show you. Do you fancy a walk?"  
"Give me a minute."  
Upstairs in her room she laced her sturdy brown brogues, and tied a silk scarf around her head, knotting it under her chin. Grabbing her jacket, she rejoined him.  
He stood patiently, dog at his side, staring out across the dunes.  
He led her down a set of rickety wooden steps, onto the beach, and they strolled together side by side.  
The sand was strewn with flotsam and jetsam from the previous night's high tide. Piles of bladder wrack seaweed. Cuttlefish and mermaids purses. Dried and abandoned jellyfish, wood and bits of rope, razor clam shells and old fishing net. He pointed out and named things to her, and she found herself smiling inwardly, he spoke to her as if she were a little child.  
A narrow path led up from the beach head, and skirted the outcrop, covered at high tide, it opened out into a small inlet.  
It was a fairy cove, with a pale, pristine beach, the cliff rising sharply behind.  
He reached out a hand to her, as they scrambled over the rocks. She clasped it tight, to stop herself from slipping. There was that touch again, that same electricity, even he seemed to catch his breath.  
"Gosh, this is beautiful," she breathed, as she took in the sight. "What a lovely place!"  
The sea was calmer here, running in foamy wavelets towards them. They stood shoulder to shoulder, looking across the restless water. The granite wall sheltered them from the buffeting wind, she noticed that Randall's hair, always so severely tamed, now had tendrils of little curls here and there, at the back of his head and behind his ears.  
"Come and have dinner at the hotel with me this evening," she heard herself saying," for old times sake?"  
Where did that come from? She had no idea.  
His mouth twitched imperceptibly.  
"I don't think so." He replied and turned away, walking back the way they'd come.  
"Randall? Please..."  
"You need to go back," he turned sharply to face her again," you need to tell them not to bother me again. You need to get on with your life, Bel. Mourn for Freddie, by all means, but don't let what happened destroy your dreams. He wouldn't want that."  
Quite suddenly she felt a wave of emotion hit her. For many months she had been unable to cry, but now tears came unbidden.  
"He used to call me Moneypenny, you know?" She said, as she began to lose control.  
His arm was around her shoulder then, drawing her in. Head against him, she sobbed. He smelled of a spiced After Shave with a hint of Pears soap, it was a heady mix.  
"I miss him!" She sniffed. "I missed my chance. You're right...what you said earlier, my priorities have changed. My career was everything, but somehow it's not so important now."  
"We all deal with things in our own way," he said, softly, " my way was coming here, but yours will be to make something of yourself, and make him proud."  
"But what if I don't want that? What if what I actually want is totally different?" She wept afresh.  
"You'll find what it is you want," he smiled," and when you do, you'll know it."  
He released her and she stepped back, wiping her face on the large white handkerchief square, he offered her.  
They walked back to the hotel in silence.  
"I'll leave you here," he said, when they reached the steps.  
"Goodbye Bel and good luck." He held out his hand, formally. But instead of taking it, she leaned towards him and kissed his cheek.  
His eyes widened and he took a pace back.  
"Goodbye, Randall. Can I come and see you again some time?"  
His hand touched the spot on his face where her lips brushed. His eyes scanned her face, searchingly.  
"I don't think you should." He responded eventually.  
"Please...I want to, I don't like to think of you here all alone. You must crave company sometimes?"  
"Well, we'll see...perhaps." He ventured, tone deliberately vague.  
Calling to Winston, he crossed the road and walked away along the beach, back towards the Lighthouse.  
Bel watched him go, hand shielding her eyes against the sun. This time, as he walked, he turned to look back several times.


	2. Chapter 2 The Letter

This story will take place and develop over a series of dates, or assignations, or trysts, if you want a fifties term. Randall would do it the old fashioned way, taking out a lady and wooing her.  
I doubt Randall would be much into Rock'n'Roll, but I think he might like big band music or perhaps jazz, which he would probably have discovered in his youth. The song for this story is 'My Funny Valentine' by Ella Fitzgerald, which is a favourite of mine, and I give the lyrics here.

Behold the way our fine feathered friend,  
His virtue doth parade  
Thou knowest not, my dim-witted friend  
The picture thou hast made  
Thy vacant brow, and thy tousled hair  
Conceal thy good intent  
Thou noble upright truthful sincere,  
And slightly dopey gent

You're my funny valentine,  
Sweet comic valentine,  
You make me smile with my heart.  
Your looks are laughable, un-photographable,  
Yet, you're my favorite work of art.

Is your figure less than Greek?  
Is your mouth a little weak?  
When you open it to speak, are you smart?  
But, don't change a hair for me.  
Not if you care for me.  
Stay little valentine, stay!  
Each day is Valentine's Day

Is your figure less than Greek?  
Is your mouth a little weak?  
When you open it to speak, are you smart?  
But, don't change a hair for me.  
Not if you care for me.  
Stay little valentine, stay!  
Each day is Valentine's Day

CHAPTER TWO.

THE LETTER.

Summer in London was a blaze of heat that year. Bel was extremely busy, and had very little spare time for social activity. Not that it bothered her much. Relaxing at home at the end of each day, with a book or some music, was enough.  
During the first weeks after returning from the West Country, she found her thoughts often straying to Randall Brown. She pictured him, sitting alone in front of his fire, listening to the moan of the wind. He appeared in her dreams a couple of times too, always hazy, always aloof and just out of reach. The visions disturbed her.  
As the season progressed, however, he faded from her mind, until, one morning she received a letter.  
It was written in a spidery hand, characters flowing and upright, a little like Randall himself. He was coming to London for a couple of days, on business, would she like to meet for a coffee or a drink perhaps? It was a very formal missive, with a 'yours sincerely' at the bottom, and his signature, a flourish at the end, then the telephone number of a hotel off The Strand.  
Bel was nonplussed, he'd been so reticent earlier in the year. Now he appeared to be actively seeking her out.

She had to admit, he looked well. His face was softer, and fuller, with a slight tan. He was still too thin, but somehow it wasn't so marked. Dressed once more in the stock uniform, he'd always worn at The Hour; smart suit, crisp shirt and plain, dark tie, knotted to perfection. He rose from his seat as she entered.  
The Waldorf Astoria in The Strand, was where they'd arranged to meet, it buzzed with the usual hubbub, voices murmuring in conversation, couples meeting for coffee, one or two late season visitors, music floated through from another room.  
He held his hands at his sides awkwardly, as if unsure what to do with them, or whether to shake hands or not. Bel, made the decision for him, and brushed him lightly on the cheek.  
"This is a pleasant surprise." She smiled.  
"You look...lov...well," he stammered.  
"I was about to say the same to you! Lighthouse life apparently suits you!"  
A long silence.  
"How's Winston?"  
Randall shifted in his seat,  
"He's fine, with my neighbour."  
The waitress bought coffee on a tray, which diffused the moment somewhat.  
Bel reached for a cup, added sugar and stirred thoughtfully. She was aware of Randall's piercing gaze on her, from behind his dark rimmed spectacles.  
"I'm only here until tomorrow," he offered," a few things from my parents estate to sort out. How's the programme?"  
"It's fine, I'm not sure it's going anywhere, but it's popular, I'm not entirely happy with it. My contract is up for renewal soon, I'm considering my options at the moment."  
He raised an eyebrow at this, but offered no comment.  
"To be honest, I feel a bit jaded," she continued, " I'm considering going to Europe, travelling a little, seeing some of the world. Cutting loose, perhaps putting a few things into perspective."  
"There's plenty out there to see, " he replied, "Italy is very nice, Spain too, then there's always Paris..."  
"I suppose you've travelled a great deal?" She asked.  
"Before the war...yes...I was in Spain, but then Franco and the Civil War happened, we...I... had to leave in a hurry."  
Bel, did not fail to notice his slip up, with the 'we'. Her curiosity was piqued.  
"So...and Paris...?"  
"Yes, in 1940...got out just in time!" He passed a hand over his eyes, in a gesture of pain, before taking another sip of coffee.  
"Seems like a long time ago now." He mused.  
She decided to chance a question, to gauge his reaction...  
"Have you heard from Lix at all, I hear she's working abroad?"  
Bingo!  
He looked up sharply, eyebrows raised, eyes wide, lips tightly pursed together, jaw muscle working. His cup rattled slightly in its saucer.  
"Not a word," he said, curtly.  
'Oh...he's good, Bel thought, he recovered himself quickly! But not quite quick enough! So there was something between them then!"  
"She'd be unlikely to contact me," he continued, his calm exterior regained," I heard she went to America."  
"You were friends, weren't you? From before The Hour?" She continued to press.  
"I wouldn't exactly say that." He was being evasive now. "What gave you that impression?"  
"Oh, I don't know, something Freddie said once, that's all."  
He studied his coffee cup as if it were the most interesting thing in the world, but said nothing.  
Bel decided to change the subject.  
"I'm actually heading down your way next month."  
Where had that come from?  
She had a scheduled programme break coming up but had made absolutely no plans.  
Randall looked up, studying her intently again.  
"Yes," she prattled on, "I'm staying in Padstow, a friend has a cottage there, I've decided to rent it."  
'Just this moment...she thought to herself, thank goodness for Pamela, the friend in question!'  
"That's quite near you, isn't it?"  
'You know darn well it is...she thought. God, Bel...what on earth are you thinking?'  
Randall's expression remained impassive. He replaced his cup and saucer carefully on the tray, and raised his eyes to meet hers.  
"Perhaps I'll see you then." His voice was oddly quiet, and he let out a short breath.  
"Randall, why did you write to me?" She asked suddenly.  
"You could have come to London and gone away again, and I would never have known."  
"I'm not really sure." He blushed slightly," I suppose I thought that seeing a pretty face would be pleasant. I didn't want to miss the opportunity if it presented itself."  
"I see..." She sounded dubious, but felt that was all she was probably going to get.  
She glanced at her wristwatch.  
"Gosh! Randall...I'm really sorry, but I have to get going... I have a meeting..."  
She left her seat, smoothing her skirt and straightening her jacket. Randall stood also, suddenly awkward again. This time he didn't bother offering his hand, but leaned towards her and they kissed, her hands on his forearms.  
"I'm glad you wrote, Randall, very glad, and if it's alright with you, I will call in on you next month, when I'm in Padstow."  
He smiled then, eyes bright, behind his glasses.  
"I'll look forward to it." He replied shyly.  
Bel turned and left hurriedly, but on reaching the swing door, she looked back. He was still standing, motionless, watching her. She raised her hand in a little wave, and he did the same.

What an oddly contrived meeting that was! Bel just could not fathom it. Was there a little frisson there between them? It was so difficult to read Randall. It was the same when they worked together. She could never tell what was going on behind those glasses. It always seemed to her that he was hiding something. There had been odd moments in those days, that she wondered if he had a thing for her. Not that he ever said anything particularly or acted on the thought. But she had been too caught up in her career, and working out her feelings for Freddie, to really give him much attention.  
Now, she was coming to the conclusion that she might be attracted to him. He was handsome, certainly, but he was 20 years older than she was. Did she have a problem with that? Not really. She sensed that he might though. There was something about that quiet reserve, Bel felt there was a great deal more to discover about him, and that she would quite like to do just that.

Randall Brown was a silly old fool. At least that was what he told himself, after Bel left him. She might well ask why he had written to her. He really had no idea, beyond actually seeing her again.  
Their meeting in Spring had unsettled him somehow. He had forgotten how beautiful she was. He detected a change in her, some of her open youthfulness had somehow leeched away, and she seemed older. Maybe Freddie's death had taken away her spark.  
How old was she? 30? Maybe more? Randall was pushing 50, it was nonsense to kid himself that anything could happen between them . It would be highly inappropriate. Yet, it brightened his day to see her, she wasn't a child, he didn't see her as a father would see a daughter...did she see him that way?  
Well, if there was nothing more, they could at least be friends. He could still enjoy her company, he could content himself with that. He told himself that was how it would be.  
He sighed to himself as he paid the bill, and rose to leave. Well, at least that was resolved in his head now. Why shouldn't they be friends? It would be so nice to have the friendship of such a lovely girl. Some pleasant company once in a while, say, in the holidays, would give him something to look forward to. Being alone had its merits, but it had a downside too, too much solitude could be destructive. Perhaps she saw him as a one might see an older relative, an uncle perhaps? Well, that was fine, he could go with that.

The summer had been so wonderful that year, it was reluctant to cede to Autumn. September came and the days were warm and languid. Misty mornings gave way to hot sunny days, and it was on one such day that Randall and Bel met again.  
The children were back at school after the summer break and most of the visitors had left. The lanes were quiet and the beaches almost empty.  
Bel drove her little Morris along the narrow road that led to the lighthouse. She had taken Pamela's cottage in Padstow for a month, with the proviso of a second month, should she require it. Her programme was on hiatus, and she was giving very serious thought to her television future. She had not yet committed herself to a new contract and her thoughts of travelling were still very much ongoing.  
Hopping out of the car to open the gate to the lighthouse courtyard, she swept through and parked beside the cottage door.  
Randall was waiting. He appeared more relaxed than when she'd seen him in London, and smiled a greeting.  
'Gosh, you do look very handsome, Bel thought to herself, and somehow younger when your face is not so tense.'

The greensward behind the lighthouse, offered an uninterrupted view out to sea, Randall had two old wicker chairs there, and a low cast iron table. He carried the tea tray out, and they sat side by side, staring out over the water, blue under the sky with white foam caps. There was nothing to hear except the cries of the gulls and the rhythmic swell of the sea below.  
"This is really lovely," Bel said, with a sigh," so restful and calming."  
"It's nice to be back here, Randall, London is so mad at the moment. I needed to escape."  
"If the weather stays fine, I was thinking we could take a picnic down to the fairy cove one day...if you would like to, that is? The tides are good at the moment. Or there are a couple of nice harbour places I know, where one can buy fresh fish straight from the boats." He gave a shy glance toward her, unsure of himself, or her reaction.  
"A picnic sounds wonderful," her eyes lit up," that's a lovely thought. Goodness, I don't think I've been on a picnic since I was a child! Is it safe to swim from the cove?"  
"I don't see why not..." He sounded dubious. The thought that she might be undressing around him was not exactly what he had in mind.  
"Do you swim?" She asked.  
"Only when I'm by myself!" He frowned...Bel smiled, she understood. It made him feel uncomfortable.  
"Randall, you are okay with me coming down here like this, aren't you? I realise I kind of foisted myself on to you. Sometimes I'm too pushy for my own good!"  
He shifted slightly in his chair, gazing pointedly out to sea, avoiding looking at her.  
"I'm pleased you came," he said eventually, "it's nice to have company, you've made an old man very happy."  
Bel gave an explosive laugh.  
"Old man?" She choked, " Good God, Randall, anyone would think you were 103!"  
"I'm not sure of your exact age, and I really couldn't care less, but I don't think you're quite in your dotage yet! "  
He smiled slightly.  
"Nor am I young and carefree, like you...not anymore." He said sadly.  
"Maybe not, but don't consign yourself to the scrap heap, just yet. I think I've come here just in the nick of time...to prevent you turning yourself into a fossil, 30 years too early!"  
He laughed then, and looked at her.  
"You are a breath of fresh air, and no mistake!"  
" I'm a mature woman Randall, I'm not a child. I know my own mind and I make my own decisions. I could be in a thousand places right now...but I chose to come here. To the Lighthouse...to see you. I chose to, I wanted to..."  
"I'm glad." Was all he could offer as a reply.

Sometime later, they took the dog for a leisurely stroll along the winding path that led practically from his front door. The sun was bright and hot, and Randall wore a Panama hat, to shade his face. Bel thought he resembled Cary Grant or some similar movie star, she linked her arm through his. He looked down at their arms, as if unsure, then seemed to make the decision that it was acceptable, and continued walking.  
On returning, they sat in the small living room together for a while, the dog snoring gently on the hearth rug.  
"I should really be making a move," Bel said reluctantly.  
These few hours had passed so pleasantly and with the promise of the picnic to look forward to, she prepared to take her leave.  
Randall walked her to the door.  
"Thank you for a lovely afternoon, I really enjoyed it." She smiled, "You're very lucky, to have this place, I think I can see now, why you like it so much."  
"Until Thursday then," he replied. "I'll meet you at the bay, at noon."  
Giving him a peck on the cheek, as seemed to have become her custom, she climbed into her car, as he walked across to open the gates for her as before.  
This time he raised his hand to her as she passed through, and instead of turning back to the house, he leaned against the bars watching until she was out of sight.

That evening Bel sat alone in the cottage and tried to read. Having read the same paragraph four times, she finally gave up.  
So, it was clear to her now, she, Bel Rowley, was definitely attracted to Randall. He fascinated her, he was handsome, he was enigmatic, all those odd little quirks he had...she liked him...a lot.  
No thought had she given to him at all, until she had been asked to seek him out with that stupid offer...seeing him again had sparked something inside her. Now she found it difficult to think of anything else. There was one major obstacle to overcome, however...he thought he was too old for her. Maybe he was...but that wasn't going to change her mind. Her feelings were there, she couldn't deny them, and under all that stiffness and reticence, she was certain he felt something too, otherwise, why had he written to her? Every sense told her, that he would try to ignore what he felt, try to reign it in under a guise of quiet reserve and stoicism, under no circumstances give in to it, to her. Somehow she had to break those barriers down.  
Oh Lord! First her stupidity over her feelings for Freddie, now this. There were young men of her acquaintance, any one of whom would make a wonderful partner, and here she was, setting her sights on, possibly the most unsuitable, unobtainable man there could ever be. It was almost laughable. Well, it was too late to back down now. The die was cast.


	3. Chapter 3 The Picnic

CHAPTER THREE.

THE PICNIC.

The blazing hot Indian Summer days continued. Bel watched the Austin 7 turn into the car park and Randall got out. He was dressed in slacks, a cotton shirt, with the sleeves rolled up, and a sweater, casually slung around his neck, tied at the front.  
She walked towards the car, as Winston bounded out, wagging his tail furiously.  
Bel had on a light print floral frock, with a bolero jacket to match, her hair loose but tied, french style with a Hermes scarf, knotted under her hair at the nape of her neck.  
Randall nodded his approval,  
"Pretty dress," he commented, as he retrieved a wicker hamper from the car boot.  
"Thank you," she blushed, "you look very dapper too."  
He pulled a face.  
"Shall we go?"  
They carried the picnic basket between them, holding a leather handle on each side.  
The tide was just low enough to reach the little secluded cove. It was completely deserted.  
Randall chose a perfect spot, close enough to the rock wall to provide a modicum of shade, but far enough away from it, for the sand to be dry. From the hamper he produced a plaid woollen blanket, and proceeded to lay it out with great precision, weighting each of the four corners with a large stone. Bel watched his deft movements as he smoothed the rug carefully.  
He then began to pull items from the basket, like a magician, pulling doves from a top hat. A silver Thermos flask, cups, plates, cutlery. A chilled bottle of wine, and one glass. Various items of delicious food; freshly baked bread, potted shrimp, cheese, slices of ham, small salad tomatoes, lettuce, grapes...  
"Good grief...Randall, how many people have you catered for?" She laughed.  
"Well, I wasn't sure what you liked," he replied somewhat shyly, " so a brought a bit of everything!"  
Opening the wine, he offered her a glass...  
"You not having any?"  
"No...I don't drink now," he sighed, "gave up a long time ago, someone once told me I made a great drunk, but that isn't me anymore."  
He suddenly looked rather wistful and sad, Bel touched his arm...  
"It's fine, Randall...it's good." She said softly.  
In order to give him a moment to recover himself, Bel stood up, taking her glass of wine, kicked off her shoes and walked to the waters edge. The waves lapped over her toes, it was deliciously cool and inviting. She turned back to look at him, he was sitting now, knees drawn up, hugging them with his hands, he looked like a lost little boy somehow.  
"The water is gorgeous," she called, " so warm!"  
She turned and padded back up the sand, and sat down on the rug next to him.  
"This is perfect, Randall...it's so lovely here. Thank you for this."  
He didn't reply, but smiled slightly and turned away.  
"Let's eat," she cried suddenly, "I'm starving!"

Full to bursting point, Bel wandered away along the rock line; little pools of seawater remained after the tide ebbed, full of grey shrimp, small crabs and little fishes, she spent half an hour watching them, the sun danced on the water, in shining sparkles. When she returned, Randall, was fast asleep on the blanket. Winston beside him.  
Bel studied his face at some length. He had removed his glasses and they lay on his tummy where his hands rested, fingers laced together. His face looked completely different, in sleep, all traces of tension gone, mouth relaxed, jaw slack, eyes closed.  
'My God, she thought, he's beautiful...he's just beautiful.'  
Reaching into the leather bucket bag, she'd bought with her, she pulled out a towel. Careful not to disturb the sleeper she removed her little jacket and unzipping her dress, she shimmied out of it. Underneath she was wearing her swimsuit.  
Unaware that Randall was now awake, she walked down to the waters edge and waded in. It felt so cool and delicious on her skin. Once thigh deep, she plunged in, head down, and swam out, rapidly, resurfacing several yards away. It was so good.  
Emerging some moments later, hair clinging to her body, skin sleek and shiny, she discovered Randall, now standing in the shallows, feet bare, trouser legs rolled up to his knees.  
"Why don't you come in?" She cried, "it's lovely!"  
He swallowed thickly at the sight of her, and shook his head emphatically.  
"Randall, for goodness sake! There's no one here but us...come and swim."  
He hesitated, for several more seconds, then seemed to make up his mind. Walking back to their picnic site he began to disrobe. It was like the unveiling of a monument! It was all Bel could do to suppress her giggles. Slowly, deliberately, he removed his shirt. Folding it with painful attention and laying it beside the hamper. Trousers, followed in a similar fashion, revealing a perfectly ordinary pair of swimming trunks. His body was lily-white, arms and chest thin, the slightest roundness in the stomach and sparse hair there. He had muscular thighs and calves and long narrow feet and toes. He looked so uncomfortable, so self-conscious, so coy.  
Her laughter faded as she noticed the marks. Across his shoulders and down his spine, curling round across his chest and stomach, were a series of scar like striations. They could have been burns, or whip lashes, she wasn't sure. Some were deeper and more livid looking than others, his torso was painted with them. Randall noticed her glances, but did not offer any comment, so, neither did she...instead he hurried towards the shallows, arms held across himself, in an effort to cover up. Once in the water, however, he swam out, strong and sure, in front crawl. As he surfaced, his hair, no longer slicked back with brylcreem, sprung into curls on his head, salt and pepper grey, he looked suddenly 10 years younger.  
Bel ran up the beach to her towel, and wrapped it around her body. The way her swimsuit clung to her curves was intoxicating, Randall did his best to keep his gaze averted. He was not entirely successful! Demurely disappearing behind the rocks, she dried off and emerged fully clothed. Randall, was dressed by the time she rejoined him, and was drawing a comb, determinedly through his hair. It refused to be tamed, however, and remained in curls, which Bel thought most becoming.  
They shared the last of the tea from the Thermos, and a piece of sponge cake, lapsing into an easy silence.  
"Tell me how you found this place," Bel asked, eventually, " I mean, the Lighthouse?"  
"We used to come here after The Great War," he replied, as if far away with his thoughts, "when I was a child. For holidays. My father was on The Somme, and he wasn't a well man for a long time afterwards. Coming to the area was a respite for him. There were thousands like him, Bel...damaged people, unable to cope with the things they saw."  
"There are plenty more like that now," she said, " this War has damaged people too. Do you remember that POW we interviewed on The Hour? He was still having nightmares about the Japanese, he probably always will."  
"My father just drank," he sighed, " to shut it all out. That's probably why I became a drinker too."  
"What made you decide to stop?"  
"I think I just reached the point of 'enough is enough', there were other reasons too, but I won't go into them."  
Bel looked at him, his face was furrowed, as if in pain, a little vein on his temple pulsed. His eyes were misty, and she saw him swallow hard.  
"What did you do during the war?"  
"I was in Intelligence, I was recruited because I was a reporter, and knew my way around Europe, and I speak French and a little Spanish, so I was useful. But I can't tell you what I did, Bel. The things I did make me hate myself, and you would hate me too."  
"You did what you had to do, Randall, it was War...and we had to win...we had to, the alternative didn't bear thinking about."  
Randall said nothing.  
"We must go," he rose suddenly, almost making her jump, " or we'll be cut off by the tide."  
They packed the hamper together, and shook off the rug. Randall called the dog to his heel and they set off back across the rocks towards the bay and the car parking spot.  
The sun was low in the sky by the time they reached it. Randall loaded the basket into the back.  
"Will I see you again?" He shaded his eyes with his hand.  
"Would you like to?" She asked.  
"Yes!" He replied, simply.  
"Then, yes, you will." She chanced a little smile.  
"When?"  
"How about the day after tomorrow? But you come to the cottage this time."  
"We could take the ferry over to Rock," he suggested, " there's a nice walk there, along the coast. If you'd like, that is?"  
"Sounds perfect, shall we say 10?"  
"10, it is." He turned to open the car door, but Bel rested a hand lightly on his arm.  
"Today was lovely Randall, thank you." She kissed his cheek, lingering a moment longer than she had previously.  
"It's been a long time since I've done anything like this," he smiled ruefully. "I'm a little out of practice."  
"You're doing just fine. Trust me."  
He blushed, and looked flustered.  
"I'll see you on Saturday." Bel said quickly, to defuse the moment. "Goodbye."  
Her heart felt very full as she drove away.


	4. Chapter 4

CHAPTER FOUR.

THE WALK.

A crunch of gravel heralded the arrival of the little Austin. Bel met him at her door.  
He looked up at the cottage,  
"Very nice." He remarked, "it's another lovely day!"  
He was wearing hiking boots, corduroys and a light jacket and had a canvas rucksack with leather straps, slung casually over one shoulder. Bel wore capri pants, a reefer style jacket over a thin blue sweater, with a short scarf tied at her neck, and stout walking shoes, her blonde hair loosely tied with a ribbon.  
With Winston on a lead, they headed down through the little harbour town, to where the drop-front ferry pulled in. Tide permitting, it took passengers backwards and forwards to Rock for most of the day. The trip only took 10 minutes and saved an 18 mile round trip by road.  
Once on the other side, they set off together along the path through the sand dunes, towards St. Enodoc.  
Crossing the golf course, they discovered the little stone church, standing alone, with its slate wall surrounding the graveyard. It was all decked out with flowers, for a recent wedding, an arch of cream roses around the outer door, and inside, small posies at intervals down the walls towards the alter. It was cool and dark and smelled of old books and woodworm, they wandered down the central aisle to the rood screen, before returning and emerging into the sunlight once more.  
"What a beautiful little place," Bel breathed, "so tranquil and peaceful...it's like something out of a storybook."  
The footpath rose sharply now, up over a rocky outcrop for a couple of miles before dropping down into the small harbour village of Polzeath.  
Randall hauled himself up the steep slope, before turning and bracing himself, to lean down and offer his hand to Bel, to scramble up beside him. His long fingers closed around her own little hand, gripping tightly. She was pulled to his side, clinging to his elbow with her other hand, almost finishing in his arms, her face inches from his. For seconds their eyes locked, Bel could feel his breath against her cheek, but he moved backwards to allow her to regain her balance, and the moment passed.  
A cafe, with gingham tablecloths and wooden chairs, greeted them as they entered the town.  
The hot sun made them thirsty. So they took a seat and waited to be served.  
A waitress in a starched white cap and pinny, came to take their order.  
Randall glanced up at her,  
"Um...a pot of tea for two, I think, please." He said, " and I'd like some buttered toast if you can manage it."  
"Of course," the waitress scribbled rapidly on her pad, "and what would your daughter like?" She asked, turning to Bel.  
Randall turned scarlet and lowered his head immediately. He was mortified.  
Bel fixed the woman with narrowed eyes, she was furious at the assumption, more angry for Randall than herself. They could be any relationship under the sun, why did she say that? It was downright rude, as much as anything else.  
Her reply was measured and deliberate...she barely contained the seething rage she felt,  
"Oh, now...let me see, I think I'll have the same as my _husband_. Two rounds of buttered toast please!"  
Both the waitress and Randall, shot her a glance, her's one of utter amazement, Randall's a mixture of abject horror but then a trace of amusement.  
Bel gave a victorious smile, straight into the girl's face, then reaching across and taking Randall's hand in her own, she said,  
"Such a nice choice, dear, coming here, how clever you are." she leaned over to kiss him firmly on the mouth.  
Randall was far too stricken by it's suddenness to respond to the kiss, and remained a rigid pole. The waitress, desperately trying to regain her composure, stammered,  
"I'll fetch your tea!" and hurried away.  
"The utter nerve!" Bel exclaimed, when she was out of earshot, she turned back to Randall, whose fingers were touching his mouth where her lips had just been. His expression one of bemused wonder.  
"I'm so sorry, Randall, I didn't mean to startle you, or embarrass you like that, I wouldn't have done it for the world, but she made me so very cross. Please forgive me."  
"I suppose if we go about together like this, it's what we should come to expect." He murmured sadly, "but, I must say, it feels much worse than I envisaged."  
They spoke no more about it until they were on the footpath out in the open again.  
"Randall, can I ask you something? You don't have to answer if you don't wish to, but I'd like to know..."  
"Of course,"  
"How exactly do you see this? Us, I mean?...I mean, I wasn't going to broach the subject, but, after that debacle, I'm afraid it damn well needs broaching! Are we friends, who enjoy each other's company? Do you look at me and see a daughter...or a niece, or is it something more than that?"  
Randall, looked very intently at the rock by his foot, and shuffled nervously, biting his lower lip.  
Bel held his arm, and moved in closer to him.  
"Well...?" He looked up into her face, "I hope we are friends, certainly. I'm afraid I can't see you as a daughter or anything familial. I have tried, but I can't."  
He made to take a step back, but she held him fast.  
"Don't make me do this, Bel, I can't say what this is, because I'm too afraid, I'm afraid that what I feel isn't right. I don't know what you want from me, and that makes me afraid too. I want..."  
Bel pulled him into her by his jacket lapels. Her lips found his, and this time, he responded. He encircled her with his arms, and drew her closer. His mouth against hers, warm and open, almost hungry.  
They broke, both gasping.  
"God, you are so beautiful," he whispered," I'm making a complete fool of myself aren't I?"  
"No, Randall! You most certainly are not!"  
"Is this really what you are looking for Bel? I can't see that it is, it feels so wonderful, but it doesn't feel right, I'm too old for you. We shouldn't do this...we just can't!"  
He backed away from her, his face miserable.  
Bel did not relinquish her grip.  
"Let me tell you something Randall. It's going to be absolute hell. People are going to stare, they are going to make unkind comments. Everyone will look at me, then look at you and tut, and shake their heads. Or they'll look at you, then look at me, say I'm only after your money or a sugar daddy. They'll call you a dirty old man and me a slut who should know better... or worse! Most will hate us. Am I right so far do you think?"  
"I think you've probably _under_ stated the case." He replied softly.  
"Right! Well, the next question is...do I give a fig for anyone's opinion of me? No, I don't. If I did, I would never have chosen a career in television, where most think I'm sleeping my way upwards! I can face down their derision, and throw it in their faces. Over these months I have grown to like you, Randall. You are kind and thoughtful, you are far more of a gentleman than most young men I've met, who, frankly just want me to go to bed with them! I enjoy your company, I would like to get to know you better, to spend some time with you. What do you think about that?"  
Her disarming frankness, rather floored him. But he tried not to show it.  
He appeared somewhat emotional, twisting his hands together, and shifting his feet. His voice was so quiet, that it was barely audible...  
"I like you too, very much, probably too much. But I can't help that. I would like permission to court you, Bel...properly, as a man should court a woman. I don't want a fling, I've done all that, and it was disastrous, the consequences so far reaching, I'll have to live with it forever. I've seen death and destruction, cruelty and hatred, and I came down here, in an attempt to distance myself from it all, to live alone and be solitary, but it appears that fate has other ideas!"  
"What about what others think of us? How would you cope with that?"  
"By ignoring it, probably! As I did when people judged me in the past. What I'm more concerned about is this...being with me will be awful, Bel. I'm obsessive and compulsive, I'm moody and prone to melancholy. I don't like large crowds and things young people like, I'm old fashioned and boring. Why on earth would you want to tie yourself to that?"  
"Hmmmm, you sound like quite a catch, I must say!"  
"Well, Randall, I, in turn, am bossy and controlling, and too pushy by far. I have quite a bad temper and I don't suffer fools gladly. I don't like being told what to do and I hate cooking! There...still interested?"  
He laughed then and pulled her towards him again. She laced her arms around his waist, under his jacket, laid her golden head against his chest and gave a deep sigh. She could feel him holding her close, a hand rubbing her back between the shoulder blades. He planted a kiss on top of her head.  
"We are both completely and utterly mad." He whispered, "it'll never work, it'll never last, but we can have a hell of a time trying the experiment!"  
"Good, that's settled then," she touched his cheek with a gentle caress, "we'll defy the lot of 'em!"

September melted into a cool October and Bel needed to return to London. She and Randall met on half a dozen occasions through the preceding weeks, they walked, or ate together in small local establishments. She visited the lighthouse once, but he seemed to prefer 'neutral ground' now that they were officially a couple.  
It was her last night and they had taken the evening water-taxi to Rock, for dinner. Now they were strolling back, her arm linked through his.  
"When will I see you?" She asked, the thought of this rural idyll, coming to an end, and the return to dirty, smoky, foggy old London, held very little allure.  
"I have my flat, still. I kept it on. I'll come there."  
"But when?"  
"Next week, if I can sort things out here." He patted her arm, "Don't fret, Bel, it'll only be a few days!"  
She huffed, blowing air through her pursed lips.  
"Now, don't be petulant, it doesn't suit you. We both knew it wasn't always going to be like this...we have to return to real life eventually."  
"Do we though?" She said," I don't see why we do."  
"Well, we do for the time being anyway." He replied, " I tell, you what, when I come up next week I'll take you to The Savoy, I'll take you dancing!"  
"Really?... I thought you hated crowded places? And anyway...can you dance?"  
"Well, I'll put up with it for your sake, and as for the dancing...you'll have to wait and see!"  
He chuckled and tightened his arm against hers as they reached the ferry to take them home.


	5. Chapter 5 The Dance

London in the fifties was notorious for bad fogs, in the Autumn particularly. It was actually a mixture of smoke from household chimneys and factories and fog...the term Smog was born. These fogs were known as 'pea-soupers' because they were so thick. They were dangerous to those with respiratory conditions. My mother told me she once ended up walking down the middle of the Commercial Road, thinking she was on the pavement!

Randall would definitely be a man who opened a door for a lady or pull out her chair, such niceties were considered 'the done thing.'

CHAPTER FIVE.

THE DANCE.

It was a misty evening, not the classic pea-souper that London often endured in the Autumn, where you could barely see a hand in front of your face, but a gauzy haze that made haloes around the street lamps and your breath come out in clouds.  
Bel put the finishing touches to her hair, a french pleat, fastened with hairpins. Subtle makeup, just a little powder from her compact and a touch of rouge, a little lipstick. Randall didn't like painted women, and that suited Bel fine. Her frock was turquoise, nipped in at the waist, with a wide skirt, held out with layers of net. Stockings and her best peep toe shoes, not too high, were perfect. Pearls at her throat, a stole for her shoulders and long white gloves as finishing touches.

A taxi drew up outside her flat. Randall came to the door and knocked lightly. His eyes widened when he saw her.  
"My word!" He exclaimed.  
"You like?" She laughed, and gave him a twirl.  
"I like very much!" He smiled and opened the taxi door for her to climb inside.  
The car turned into The Strand and swept up to the frontage of The Savoy. Randall paid the driver, opened the cab door and offered Bel his hand. She took it and slid out, taking his arm as they walked towards the foyer.  
A resplendently attired doorman greeted them and Randall stepped back to allow Bel to pass through ahead of him. They were shown to their table, and he pulled her chair out for her to take a seat.  
The room was spectacular, lit in the centre by a vast chandelier, positioned over the dance floor. The tables were arranged around the perimeter, each with a little orange table lamp and a crisp white linen tablecloth and napkins. Giving the air of subdued lighting for intimate conversation, yet brighter in the middle for dancing.  
The maitre de had taken his overcoat, and Bel could now admire her date for the evening at her leisure. His black evening suit, had silk lapels and he wore a wing collar shirt, dazzlingly white, with a black bow-tie, starched handkerchief in his breast pocket. With his hair combed back and his dark rimmed glasses, he looked very handsome indeed.  
"Well, don't you scrub up well!" She said, smiling.  
Randall blushed shyly and dropped his eyes.  
At the far end of the room a raised dais, held stands for each of the musicians and a shiny black Steinway grand piano. Positioned to one side was a square-head microphone, ready for the chanteuse.  
The waiter brought champagne and some soda water to the table.  
They clinked glasses.  
"I hope you're not trying to get me tipsy!" Bel whispered, leaning across the table to address him.  
"Of course not!"  
Meal over, they sipped coffee from tiny gold rimmed cups, as the band members began to file in and the singer take her place. They began with a slow number.  
Randall rose from his seat and offered his hand.  
"Shall we?" He said, eyes twinkling.  
"I'd be honoured."  
He led her onto the floor and she turned to face him. His hand firmly in the centre of her back, other arm outstretched, holding her other hand lightly, they stood toe to toe.  
"Ready?" He said.  
At her nod, he began to propel her across the floor, with consummate ease, in a slow waltz, his movements polished and graceful.  
"My goodness!" She laughed, "what a dark horse you are Randall Brown!"  
"You should see my foxtrot," he answered, with a mischievous grin. They moved around the floor, weaving through the other dancers, but never colliding. Randall certainly was an accomplished waltzer.  
After several more dances, they returned to the table, and sat enjoying the band. A voice nearby suddenly spoke.  
"If it isn't Randall Brown, good grief man, I thought you'd retired to the ends of the earth!"  
Randall looked up,  
"Terence!" He said, "nice to see you again!"  
"And who is this beautiful creature?" the said Terence addressed himself towards Bel.  
"This is Bel, my...companion."  
Randall shot a pleading glance at Bel, that said...'I'm sorry but I don't know how to describe what you are to me, to other people.'  
Bel winked at him, and Terence shook her hand. A short conversation followed between the two men before they parted ways.  
"Well, that was awkward!" Randall breathed..."what DO I call you, exactly...my girlfriend, lady friend, partner, companion...I don't know. What do you call me?...boyfriend is completely inappropriate. Didn't we say this was going to happen!"  
A few moments later as Bel made her way to the ladies powder room, she overheard Terence, talking to colleagues at his table.  
"Unbelievable!" Her ears pricked, "with that bit of skirt, as well. A right little tart, if you ask me! Christ, what is he thinking!"  
Bel was so glad that Randall had not heard the comments. She looked across to him, sitting at the table, enjoying the music with rapt attention, his fingers drumming on the tabletop. She suddenly felt very sad, and very protective towards him. She wanted to hold him tight and kiss him, and show these idiots what a wonderful man he was, but this was how it was going to be. Wherever they went, they would have this to contend with.  
Returning from the ladies, she stood beside his chair.  
"Shall we go, Randall." She said, leaning down towards him and tracing her fingers against his hand. She hoped Terence and his cronies were watching.  
"Already?" He responded, doubtfully.  
"I'm tired, do you mind?" She said, "its been a long day."  
"What's wrong, what's happened?" It was no use, he knew something was up, she couldn't fool him for a moment.  
"Let's go home, Randall."  
He rose from his seat without another word and she held his arm extra tight, as he retrieved his overcoat, and the doorman hailed them a cab.  
He didn't speak until they were safely on their way.  
"Was it Terence?" He asked.  
"Yes," emotion was rising in her chest, she fought to control it. Her bravado from the day of their walk had faded away. The rest of the journey passed in silence. When they'd almost reached Bel's flat, she turned to him,  
"Coffee?"  
"It's late." He said evasively.  
"Please?"  
"Just here driver, thank you." Randall leaned over and paid the cabbie, again, he opened the door for her and offered his hand.  
Once inside, she lit the gas ring and filled the kettle. Kicking off her shoes and flinging the stole and gloves over the back of a chair. Randall frowned, and bent to straighten the shoes, putting them together side by side, where they had fallen. Bel ignored this, and was clattering cups and saucers in the kitchen.  
"So, were they being rude?" he asked finally, leaning against the door jamb.  
"Insufferably so," she replied, and, without warning, her voice gave way.  
Randall crossed the room in an instant and pulled her close to him.  
"We knew it would be like this." He whispered into her hair.  
"Yes, but it doesn't make it less hurtful." She sobbed.  
His hand was caressing the back of her head and the nape of her neck.  
"I hate being in London, I wish we could leave." She nuzzled into his chest.  
"Randall, when I heard them say those things, I looked at you, and it made me realise something..."  
She raised her head to look at his face, touching his cheek with her hand. She heard his intake of breath as she did so, and he leaned into the touch.  
"I think I might be starting to fall in love with you, and it's all a bit sudden and I'm..."  
He was kissing her then, hands in her hair, mouth hot against her own; longing, hungry kisses, that made her stomach jump and her legs feel weak. Tears were still on her cheeks, he could taste the saltiness, her breathing rapid and shallow. She clutched at him, pulling him closer, feeling his hands cup her face, capturing her mouth over and over again. Then, just as suddenly as it began, it was over. He released her, stepping back, passing the back of his hand across his wet lips, almost staggering, reeling under the impact of his actions.  
"I...Bel...I'm sorry..."  
She hushed him and drew him back into her embrace.  
"Randall, I'm the one who should be sorry...it's not what you wanted to hear, I know...it's too soon. I haven't ruined everything, have I ?"  
"You? I...God, no, of course not! Bel, you are the most beautiful creature on this earth, and I don't even know why you'd so much as look at the likes of me, let alone love me. But there'll always be people like Terence, you know that!"  
He kissed her again, more slowly this time, sweet and passionate, deeper and harder. She whimpered, pressing herself closer to him, feeling warmth coursing through her.  
The kettle started to whistle, piercingly. It could not be ignored. They separated reluctantly and she switched off the gas.


	6. Chapter 6 Dreams and Disclosure

There is a great deal of angst in this chapter! All the dream sequences over the following chapters are not made up, they are real, horribly so, and I've spared you some of the worst! But this is War, and War is hell.

It's Peter's fault for playing these deep characters with undisclosed backgrounds! And playing them so well! Lots of hidden stuff, just waiting to be brought out! I've given a great deal of thought as to the reasons behind Randall's tics and OCD, it's all about the need to be in control, yes...but why? You'll find out in the next few chapters!

CHAPTER SIX.

DREAMS AND DISCLOSURE.

Dank walls, dripping with water, green with slime and filth. A smell of decay, the stench of death pervading his nostrils.

Echoes and voices in the distance, cries and shouts and groans. Solitary. Hours, days, alone with just his thoughts. In the dark.  
Hands gripping him, pulling, wrenching. A brilliant white light, between the eyes, blinding him, searing into the smallest recesses of his brain.  
Pain. Unimaginable, excruciating, all encompassing, filling his entire mind and wracking his emaciated body. Every bone, every sinew, every muscle, tearing, screaming, begging. A warm wetness; urine; his own.  
Blessed unconsciousness. Senses drifting, floating away, a hazy summer, a little girl, running, laughing, hair streaming out behind. Sophia.  
Explosions, an ear shattering cacophony, debris flying, gun-fire. NO!

Velvet darkness surrounded Randall, as he woke with a start. The shout had woken him. Had it come from his own lips?  
Drenched in perspiration, breathing rapidly. Chest aching. Tears.  
He sat up, drawing his hand across his face and through his hair. Swinging his legs out of bed, he padded to the kitchen for a glass of water. His pyjamas clung to his legs and he shivered, as the chill sweat dried on him.

Leaving Bel's place the evening before, had been hard. He'd wanted to stay. She'd wanted him to stay too. The biggest part of him wanted her, desperately, but the wee small voice at his shoulder, said 'no'.  
His mind was in turmoil now, the serene calm he sought to maintain, was crumbling. His concentration, on that dance floor had been total. Anything less would have left him shaking and sweating, as an overwhelming feeling of panic, at being in a room packed with people, swept over him. He'd been pleased at how well he'd coped, considering.  
But then, afterwards; the kissing, and he'd almost lost control. He'd felt her need...and his own. It terrified him. Surrendering himself like that, required trust. Trust he did not possess, not in himself, not in her. His body trembled at the memory of it.  
He felt ill, as he had before he left The Hour, after he and Lix had made the terrible discovery. All his hope, (and hope was all he had), dashed. Everything empty and meaningless. He'd felt so sure, so certain of seeing her, his child. But he never had. One dog-eared photograph was the only proof he had that she'd even existed.

Bel would never understand, how could she? He'd started to fool himself that he could finally put it all behind him; live...love...be happy, but it was always there, and he could only make it through each day, with a supreme effort of will. A daily struggle, that wore him down and would wear her down eventually too.

He needed to get out of London. He needed to be in his tranquil, solitary place, with his dog, and the ceaseless sound of the sea and the wind.

His phone had been disconnected when he'd moved away. So he searched for a telephone kiosk, and dialled Bel's number, press button A or button B, waiting with his coin poised in the slot, for the pips to go, but there was no one home.

He could go to the television studios. No, he couldn't. He couldn't bring himself to go back there. Instead he drew forward a sheet of notepaper and his fountain pen.

Leather suitcase packed, he closed up his flat, locked the door and hailed a taxi. Reaching Bel's place, he posted the letter under her door. The cab did a U turn and headed straight for Paddington Station and the Penzance Express. He was running away...and not for the first time. His head rested against the cold glass. Rhythmic...chuff...chuff...clouds of steam, the wailing of the locomotive's whistle lulled him.

Bel found the letter on her return home:

 _Dearest Bel,_

 _I couldn't stay any longer. I had to go back to Cornwall. I'm sorry...so sorry...sorry for everything. Come to me if you will, but I will not blame you in any way, if you do not wish to._

 _There are so many things I wish I could say to you, but I cannot find the right words. I care so deeply for you but I am so afraid. Please forgive me, dear Bel, I would not hurt you for the world._

 _I could not bear it. You have been through so much already, and you deserve better._

 _I expect nothing, nothing at all, from you._

 _But I will always remain_

 _Your affectionate_

 _Randall._

She read and reread the words. Damn him! Did he think she was going to run after him?

Oh Hell! Hell! How could she not? She couldn't leave things hanging like this. She'd told him she loved him, for goodness sake. And she did...God help her, she loved the stupid man. How could he do this to her? How could he just run out like this? Not even able to face her?

She was so angry, angry enough to scream and shout, instead, she cried, cried until she had no tears left.

Calming herself, drying her eyes, she looked at her watch. 6pm. Enough time. Hang the lot of them, there was no time for worrying about the programme. Dialling her work colleague, she explained briefly that she had a family crisis and had to leave suddenly. They would just have to cope without her. She threw a few things into a bag, locked her flat and drove off into the night.

The little Morris did not know what it had done, to be driven so mercilessly. It still took her six hours before she rounded the bend on the narrow road to the lighthouse. It was passed midnight, would he even be awake?

A light shone bravely in the front window. She could hear the Late Night Music Show from the wireless.

Randall was both shocked and surprised as he opened his door to a very dishevelled, very tired, tear stained and emotional Bel.

Before he could even stand aside, she marched passed him and into the living room. He followed her in silence, eyes downcast, head bowed.

She turned to face him. Her eyes blazed.

"What's this?" She said, voice raised and unsteady. She waved the letter at him.

"I..."

"You...what? You wrote this, you wrote it and then you ran away."

"Yes."

"Care to explain why you did that? Was it because of what I said? Because you could have just told me, said you didn't love me, it wasn't what you wanted...but no! You just ride off into the sunset!"

"Bel, it wasn't like that...I'm sorry...really sorry."

"Sorry? Yes, you've said that in the letter...what _was_ it like then, Randall? I thought we were doing well, I thought you liked me...you kissed me! Correct me if I'm wrong but you seemed to be enjoying it!"

"I don't know what to say, I'm not good in these situations, it's the not being in control, I...it gets difficult, and then I can't...I can't...function."

"You mean you're a bloody COWARD!" She let rip, yelling at him.

His face creased, temple throbbing, he looked more miserable than she'd ever seen anybody.

"YES! YES! YES! " He cried, bringing his face to within inches of hers, "I am a coward, craven, yellow, no guts at all. Guilty as charged. I'm a pathetic excuse for a man, Bel, I get through my days with therapy from my doctor and pills and meditation techniques, that's why I came here in the first place. So that I didn't have to face things anymore, so there'd be no need to run away...then _you_ arrived. You walked into my life and you turned it upside down. Everything I'd pushed down came back up to the surface. Why do you think I constantly tidy things? Why do you think I put things in height order...adjust chairs...straighten books...align pens? It's a coping mechanism, Bel, it's a way of having control. If I can control the little things, maybe I can at least attempt to control the big things!"

"But you were alright when you worked at The Hour, I watched you, I know I saw you lying down once, but you were tired...it was manic...you coped with huge things...everyday."

"Yes...and then I didn't. It all went wrong. I needed it to stop."

"But why did it all go wrong? It wasn't because of Freddie? That was nothing to do with you, it wasn't your fault, it wasn't anybody's fault."

Tears were pouring unchecked down his cheeks now, he was trembling; hands, head, legs.

"BECAUSE I LOST MY BLOODY CHILD, BEL...I lost her, I lost her, it was my hope, it was what kept me going...all those years...all through the War, and I lost her, I lost her."

Sobs wracked him and he sank to his knees, head down to the carpet, legs splayed.

Bel watched in horror as he fell apart.

"Your child?" She whispered...kneeling beside him, her hand on his arm...

"My child. My child." He repeated the mantra, between choking and gulping.

She held him fast now, pulling him sideways and into her embrace. Stroking his head and kissing it.

"It's alright. It's alright. I'm sorry Randall, I'm so, so sorry. It's alright. Please, please don't torture yourself any more for my sake. How could I know? It's alright. I'm here."

It took him a long time to recover, for the shaking to subside and for him to be able to speak with any coherence. They remained on the floor, her arms around him, hand against his chest, rubbing gently.

"Tell me." She murmured, "talk to me Randall."

"I can't, I can't, I don't want to. What will you think of me?" He shook his head.

"Randall, I won't think any less of you. Tell me...please."

He sighed, chest still hitching from time to time. Wiping his running nose with the back of his hand, instead of his handkerchief. His voice hoarse and broken...

"We met in Spain, Lix and I. I wasn't always as I am now, Bel. Not before the War anyway. We had an affair...wonderful...passionate, well _she_ was passionate...about everything. About life, her career, love, everything. I was a heavy drinker, had been for a while. We drank together. It was a way to lose ourselves. When she told me she was pregnant, I panicked. I didn't want a child, nor did she. We parted company."

"You left her?"

"I ran away, Bel, I headed for Paris. I abandoned her. That's the wastrel I was. But I regretted the decision immediately. She had the baby, a girl...Sophia, they came to Paris together. Before the War began, Lix had Sophia adopted by a French couple, then Lix ran away too, to continue her life. We were both as bad as each other, both selfish, both with our own agendas. It was after the War I started to search for her. For years, with no luck. My job at The Hour was planned with that in mind, when I discovered Lix worked there. I continued to trawl any archives I could gain access to, but so many were destroyed, it was difficult. Then there was news, and we went to the embassy together...and..."

He began to weep again.

"That was it...the whole family...killed in an air raid. Gone. Dead. I never even saw her. Not once. I'd hoped for so long. I'd even hoped Lix and I might rekindle our relationship. But that was never going to be. She never wanted me in the first place, not really, if she was honest. She left for America and I just...left."

"Oh Randall. You poor dear man, no wonder you couldn't cope. Who would, when faced with that?"

"There's much, much more to it than that. But I can't...I can't talk any more. Please Bel, I can't. I don't want to. It hurts."

It was three in the morning. They were both exhausted and overwrought. She hugged him tight, kissed his forehead,

"Goodnight Randall, maybe we'll talk more tomorrow, if you feel up to it. If not, we'll wait until you are."

Bel settled down in Randall's spare room, it was an hour, maybe two, later, when a cold nose touched her hand, as it dangled free of the bedclothes. Opening her eyes blearily she could see the shape of Winston, in the gloom. She sat up. The dog whined and touched her hand again.

"What is it boy?" She whispered, "what's up?"

Tail down, the dog moved to her doorway, turning back as if to be sure she followed. It was chilly, and she pulled on her cardigan.

The door to Randall's room was ajar, Winston nudged it open, padded inside and stood patiently beside the bed.

His blankets and counterpane were thrown back in disarray. Candlewick bedspread on the floor in a heap. Randall lay in the centre of the pillows, head tossing from side to side, arms thrashing, now murmuring, now crying out. His body glistened with a sheen of sweat, and yet he was cold as ice to the touch. His striped pyjamas emphasised his thinness, drawstring tied tight around his middle. His hand clutched at something unseen, fingers curling and uncurling.

The dog whimpered and she stroked his ears gently.

"It's alright boy, good dog."

Bel sat down on the edge of the bed and reached out to touch Randall's face. He jerked, and flinched, as if her touch burned him, pulling away, but not waking. Slowly and steadily she began to stroke across his forehead and temples and backwards through his scalp. She repeated the motion, he spoke some words, in French, but she couldn't catch them. Again she brushed her hand against his forehead, soothing, gentle. Gradually he began to simmer down. His breathing easing and becoming deeper. She did not stop until he was completely quiet and still. Face relaxed in repose. She pulled the eiderdown up over him, tucking it around his body then returned to her own bed, and fell into a deep sleep.


	7. Chapter 7

The descriptions in this chapter are all true and well documented. Most were not as lucky as Randall, if lucky is the right word. Many returning POW's came back changed men. Some were violent, some drank, some closed themselves off from their loved term Post Traumatic Stress did not exist, and most were left to cope alone, in any way they could. Having had all control completely taken away from him, Randall would seek to find control in any way possible. I think he would always have leaned towards OCD but his experiences would polarise the condition, to the extent that he could not function without it.

I must point out that I in no way wish to offend anyone with the contents of these chapters. There is no doubt that the Gestapo were cruel. There were not alone. Cruelty still carries on today, lessons are still to be learned.

CHAPTER SEVEN.

ANGEL AND DEMONS.

Icy chill, wet clothes. Creeping, inexorable, gnawing hunger. An insatiable longing for anything edible, but nothing forthcoming, for days sometimes. Forgetting what food tasted like.  
The inevitability of impending death. Welcoming it, wanting it, longing for it, to put an end to this torment.  
Hanging. Naked. Wrists, arms and shoulders burning. Doused with freezing water. A crackle, a spark, a burning smell, searing agony. Body twitching and writhing in reflex. Another jolt, a flash, this time through the genitals. Scream. No control, a trickle down the leg.  
Head wrenched up, by the hair. A fist. Taste of blood in the mouth, metallic, sour.  
Time has no meaning. Days with no beginning and no end. Hope extinguished? Not quite.  
Deep, deep down in the most secret recesses, the minutest corner of the mind, where even pain cannot reach...a little girl.  
Thrown onto a fetid mattress. Curled in a ball. Knees up, head down.  
Touch of a hand...brace for pain...no pain. A caress; warm, gentle. A vision; hazy, indistinct, golden hair, soft voice, soothing, stroking. Overwhelming relief, flooding emotion...sleep, sleep, sleep now, sleep.

Bel woke with a start. The sound of crockery clinking from the kitchen. Randall was moving about the house. Fully dressed and wide awake.

A chill pervaded her room, there was frost on the window pane and a thin watery late Autumn sun shone through the damask curtains.  
She joined him, as he was whipping eggs in a bowl with a fork.  
He turned to her, his face looked tired, drawn, dark circles under his eyes, barely hidden by his spectacles.  
His gaze followed her as she moved closer to him, taking the bowl and fork from his hands, placing them aside, threading her arms under his cardigan, around his waist. Laying her head against his chest. Not speaking.  
She felt his arms come around her, he held her, but his body was shaking, she could feel the tremble through his clothes.  
"It's alright Randall. Don't say anything. I understand."  
"I don't think I can be what you want Bel, I don't think I have the strength, I've struggled so long, I can't do it anymore." His tone was resigned, his teeth chattering, body cold and clammy.  
"I want to stay here. Please say you won't send me away?"  
"It's not right, Bel, you can't stay here with me, it would ruin your reputation, your career, everything."  
She raised her head to look at him.  
"No, Randall, no more running, for you or for me. This is where it ends. Right here in this cottage. Whatever happens next, happens. I don't care about anything else."  
He pulled her close again, kissing the top of her head.  
"I have so many demons." He whispered.  
"So we will confront them, once and for all."  
"You are an angel, but you don't know what you're up against." He stroked her hair.  
"Angels fight demons, I'll help you fight yours. I promise. I have to do this. I love you."  
His body still quaking, he brushed her mouth with his lips.  
"Then I'll fight with all I have. But I'm weak at the moment, Bel. It's all very raw, very close. I feel I'm on the edge of a great precipice and any moment I could fall."  
"All the more reason I'm here then. To catch you." Her fingers touched his cheek and he leaned his face into her touch, his eyes fluttering closed as he let out a deep sigh. He looked so weary. Her heart wept for him.

After breakfast, a long walk along the clifftop, the lighthouse below them. Winston ran alongside. It was bitterly cold. A biting wind from the sea and the promise of snow in the air.  
She held his arm tightly in hers, his pace laboured, bowed over slightly as if struggling against a heavy weight. Brow furrowed, deep in thought.  
Back in the warmth of his living room. He stoked up a roaring fire. A large stew simmered slowly on the stove.  
Bel settled down on the sofa, curled beside him. It seemed his barriers were down, as he welcomed the close contact.  
Suddenly he spoke. His voice nothing more than a rasp, uncertain, indistinct.  
"I'm ready Bel."  
She sat up and took both his hands in hers. She knew.  
"If it gets too much, just say, okay?"  
He swallowed hard, gripping her fingers tightly.  
"I've never told anyone, not even the Doctor, not all of it, I don't think I can _ever_ tell all of it. I thought if I buried it, I could carry on, but it's been so long and it's more of a struggle now than ever."  
"You talk...I'm just going to listen. Say whatever you can, and if you want to stop...stop! I'm here."  
"I told you I was in Intelligence, during the War. Well, when I fled Paris in 1940, I was recruited into the SOE. The Special Operations Executive. In London. I had months of training, to operate the wireless, explosives, maps, reconnaissance , you name it...then in '42, Operation Prosper was initiated. The following year I parachuted into France, to make my way to Paris, meet my contact and work with the Resistance. Gathering information, hindering the Germans in any way possible, and later, paving the way for a possible invasion. The average lifespan of the agents was a few weeks, Bel, no more. The constant threat of discovery, of betrayal, was always there. But my cover was good and my french excellent, and I survived. The strain was terrific, but you got used to it, and you got on with it."  
Randall passed a hand across his face, as the images came back to him. His manner became somehow detached, as though he were speaking of someone else.  
"In February of '44 I was betrayed, and one night the Gestapo came for me. I had no warning, no time to escape. I was taken to 84, Avenue Foch, their headquarters. For questioning. I was interrogated."  
Bel drew in a sharp breath.  
"I was there on the fifth floor for a while, a couple of weeks maybe. Then transferred to Fresnes Prison, on the outskirts of Paris."  
Randall began to shiver, violently, sweat beaded his brow and top lip. Tears ran down his face, and yet he wasn't really crying.  
"I was in solitary, from March to July, but I had no concept of time really. The passing days melt into one. All you focus on is the dark, the pain, and not giving in, not telling them any information, no matter how hard they try to break you. They can break your body, Bel, but as long as a tiny part of your mind remains..."  
"Oh God! Oh God!...Randall, and I called you a _coward_. What a foolish woman I am. How can you ever forgive me? You are the bravest man I've ever known. What did they do to you?"  
"Pretty much standard stuff really," Randall shrugged his shoulders in a matter of fact way, and gave an ironic laugh.  
"Starvation, or at least semi-starvation, deprivation of the senses, inflicting as much pain as they think you can handle without killing you. Taking away every modicum of control that you have. Both of body and of mind. Every shred of what makes you human, making you into a sub species, bestial. Complete subjugation. You learn to associate the touch of a human hand with pain, agony. Your sense of self is taken away. Unless you can keep a part of you unsullied, you will cave, break, go insane, or just lose the will to carry on living."  
Bel began to cry quietly. Seeing this man, whose stillness and serenity, whose subtlety and gentility she had always admired...this is what he endured, for months untold. This is what he carried with him, every single day. It broke her heart.  
"How did you survive?" She wept.  
"My hope was Sophia...she was my light, my secret place that they couldn't reach. That I would somehow stay alive, and I would find her. I had endless dreams about her. That was my beacon. Without that I would have died. It gave me the will." He wiped his face with his trembling hand.  
"In August when the Germans knew the game was up, they started executing some prisoners, but I was loaded onto a wagon, 127 of us in a cattle truck, big enough for 40. Windows boarded up, no light, no food, no water. Two days the train sat in the blazing sun. Some died then and there. We were bound for Buchenwald, although we didn't know it then. I only found that out later, many more died in that camp, before it was liberated in '45. But some of the prisoners were wearing hobnail boots, and they decided to try kicking the boards out and making a break for it. When the train slowed, they got down between the carriages. Only a few of us made it out. We just made a bid for freedom. They fired on us with a machine gun. We ran...I don't know where the strength came from. But the instinct to live is strong. We were still this side of the French border, just, one of the border guards was a woman, she gave us water, and we were taken in and looked after. We made our way back, towards Paris, by the time we reached the outskirts it had been liberated by the Americans."  
"Good God, Randall! "

He turned towards her, face filled with anguish,  
"I thought I'd be okay then. I was alive...I was free...against all the odds, I'd made it, but the dreams, Bel, the dreams...they never stop. I hear the screams, I see it all, I feel the pain. I want it to stop. I need it to stop. The doctors gave me pills to help me sleep, they had me on the couch...to talk, therapy, they call it, they taught me to focus on little things, meditate, ease my mind. But it doesn't stop the dreams. The couch I had in my office at The Hour...the idea was, that if I felt the need, I should retreat there, lie down, close my eyes and allow myself to drift, to calm myself, regain my equilibrium. Mostly it worked, or at least helped, but after discovering the news about Sophia, it didn't work any more, I had to leave Bel, I could no longer hold it together.  
So I hit upon the idea of coming here...the peace, the solitude, not being stressed by outside influences, I began to improve. I found that I could function again."  
"And then I came along..."  
"And then you came along, " he squeezed her fingers," I dared to hope, Bel, at first, for a while, I really thought 'I can do this'. I managed whilst I was down here... just, but returning to London, you telling me you thought you loved me, kissing you that night...it overwhelmed me, my own feelings scared me, contact that was supposed to be so pleasurable, became painful. I'm not sure I'm capable of a proper relationship, not the sort of relationship a lovely woman like you should have. I can't do that to you, Bel. You should have a husband, children..."

"And what if I don't want those things? What if what I really want is right here, in front of me?"

"Ah, Bel...you say that now, but in a years time? Two? How would you feel then? You'd feel you wasted the best years of your life on me."

"No, Randall, no time spent with you would be wasted. I will accept whatever you _do_ feel capable of giving. I ask for nothing more."

The disbelief on his face was clear. Did she still want him after all he'd said? Could he actually give in to his feelings and trust her?

The small voice on his shoulder said 'no'. But somehow he was disinclined to listen, this time the voice sounded unsure, this time, he felt he could almost reach out and touch...life, love and everything that went with it. Somehow, a weight had been lifted, someone finally knew his story, apart from himself. He had managed to share it, she knew the truth...and she was still here.


	8. Chapter 8 Union

Once a story is shared, once it is not held inside oneself, a trust has been forged. This trust, where Randall and Bel are concerned would be vital to their relationship. For Randall it is a huge leap of faith. Bel, is younger, she could tire of him, her priorities may change, he has no real guarantees. And yet he is prepared to surrender himself to that possibility, whatever the consequences.

When I started writing this chapter, what happens wasn't planned at all. Then it just kinda seemed right. I don't think, for one moment that Randall would hesitate now, any more than he did when he was younger, with Lix. Despite his protestations earlier in this piece.

CHAPTER EIGHT.

UNION.

Chains cutting into wrists, already scarified. The thwack of the rubber bar, across the back, shoulder blades, buttocks. Head drooping, a long trail of spittle suspended from his mouth. Cut down, falling into a ragged heap. Unable to stand, unable to walk. Dragged away.  
Darkness, silence.  
Untreated welts ooze serous fluid. Torn and filthy, shirt stuck and crusted.  
Cockroaches scuttling along the edge of the walls, brown carapace shining. Long antennae feeling the way. Too many to even bother to kill.  
Tiled room. Empty apart from the huge bathtub. Immeasurable, the fear at that sight, the terror. Tied to the bar that spanned the tub. Ice cold water. A vicious tug. Under. No time to take a breath. Lungs at bursting point. Eyes bulging. Drowning.  
Up. Gasping, choking, coughing, retching. Frozen, numb with cold. Then under for a second time, a third.  
Body lice. Eggs in the seams of soiled clothing. Itching, biting, sucking the blood.  
Never, never able to feel clean, even now, no matter how much he scrubs and washes himself.

Opening his eyes, blinking like an owl as the darkness recedes, pushed back, giving way to light; not abrasive, not searing but a golden glow flowing, pouring, surrounding him, turning chill to warmth. The warmth spreading, enveloping him in a blanket of velvet. A touch like silk; not harsh, not painful; so gentle, so soothing, that his chest feels about to burst. Cries and screams melt into a serene music. A melodic humming, lulling and pacifying. Celestial, heavenly. Arms encircling, pulling him away from the cell, into marshmallow softness. Aching head cradled, caressed, fingers stroking his hair, his temples, his forehead, his cheek.  
Smell of death replaced by the scent of 4711 Eau de Cologne, soap, feminine fragrance, heady and intoxicating.  
"I'm here, Randall, rest now. Sleep."  
"Bel...is it you?...hold me...I need you...I love you."  
"Shhhhhh! I'm here. I'm holding you. Peace. Rest now. Sleep. Sleep."

Snow was falling, silent, beautiful. Drifting at the edges of the lattice windows, a carpet of feather light whiteness covering everything.  
The weak sun made it sparkle and glisten with a thousand tiny points of light. Bel, peered out of her bedroom casement...to see Randall, standing outside in the middle of the courtyard, in his pyjamas and slippers! His face turned up towards the sky, the flakes falling in his hair, on his cheeks, his eyelashes; his mouth open, hands out to his sides, palms up as if in supplication.  
She hurried to the door.  
"Randall, what are you doing? You'll catch pneumonia!"  
Dropping his hands, he seemed to realise how cold it was...he shivered, but did not move. Bel crunched across the crisp purity to reach him, putting her hands on his arms, she turned him and piloted him inside. He moved like an automaton.  
"You're frozen...go and put your clothes on, what were you thinking?"  
He blinked at her, as if seeing her for the first time. He smiled.  
"Bel...are you real? I can feel, Bel, I can feel the snow, I can feel the cold. I'm not numb. I'm alive! Are you an angel Bel? Did I dream you?"  
"I'm real, Randall, now go and get dressed before you freeze to death!"  
"But you were there, I saw you, how were you there? It wasn't Sophia, it was you."  
"Yes, I was there, on your bed, you were having a bad dream, I came in to you, it isn't the first time."  
"Not the first time?"  
"No, I've come in to you before, Winston came and got me, I held you, while you slept."  
He seemed to digest her words slowly.  
"But don't you see?" He then cried, excitedly, " you pulled me back, that's never happened before."  
His face was flushed now, eyes wide and very bright, clear to be seen without his glasses on.  
His fingers were like icicles as he clutched her arms, testing the feel of her, as if he were still unsure, that she was really there. His face incredulous.  
"Randall, you really are chilled right through, you should have a hot bath, to warm you up. I'll make us some coffee and some breakfast."  
He didn't move.  
"Do you know, it was ages before I could get into a bath? I had to wash by the sink, with a flannel."  
"Well, you need one right now!"  
Still he didn't move. A tremor ran right through him. She would have to take matters into her own hands.  
Bel began to unbutton his pyjama jacket. Slowly, she slid it down and back, off his shoulders. Her hands lingering on his chest as it rose and fell, the rate increasing. Moving around him, she traced the marks across his back with her fingertips. There was a sharp intake of breath at the touch. Guiding him gently into the bathroom, she turned on the taps.  
He remained inert, staring down at her, eyes flitting over her face. While the water ran and the clouds of steam swirled around them, she raised herself up on tiptoes and touched his lips with her own. Hands brushed his shoulders, stroking down his arms, moving across his chest and down to his navel, she began to untie the drawstring of his pyjama trousers. He did not flinch, or try to stop her, as she eased them down over his buttocks and they fell round his ankles. Curling her fingers into his, she turned him slightly, to face the tub.  
"In you get," she whispered,  
He obeyed without a word, stepping into the water, and eased himself down with a sigh. Back bent forward, knees up.  
She knelt then, cupping her hands and letting the water trickle over his shoulders and down his spine. He bowed his head, and allowed her to soap her hand and wash his back, with slow rhythmic circles.  
Standing again, dripping wet, she enveloped him in a white bath-towel. Everything about her touch was calculated to be the opposite of anything he may have experienced. She wanted him to feel that not all contact was painful.  
Once in his bedroom, she intended to help dress him carefully, as he seemed unwilling or unable to help himself.  
"Where are my glasses?"  
She reached behind him to where his spectacles lay on the bedside table. He made no move to take them from her, so she placed them carefully on his nose.  
There was no attempt to prevent her drying him off nor to take over for himself. He was warm now but his gaze never left her face, now that he could see it clearly. As she reached around him, to pull the towel, he suddenly drew her close.  
"Bel." His voice was a hiss, barely audible.  
Pupils blown, he bent and their lips met. The kiss was deep, sensual, his mouth working on and against hers, warm and inviting, asking for more.  
Bel had been sleeping in one of Randall's old shirts, as her rapid packing had neglected to include adequate nightwear. His long fingers began fumbling awkwardly with the fastenings, but he managed to undo them and remove the article. His eyes roamed over the swell of her breasts, her stomach, her ivory skin. She gasped, as his mouth moved down her neck, nipping, kissing. Closer now, she could feel his arousal, against her. He eased her back, onto the bed, touch moving to her hip, not breaking contact with her lips.  
"Randall, are you sure?" She murmured.  
"Bel, I'm alive. I can feel the snow, I can feel the cold, I can feel you, I want you."  
His nails grazed between her thighs and she moaned, her body bucking up towards him. His touch was clumsy and unpractised but he knew what he wanted, and his body knew too. A desperate urgency, no time for foreplay. She parted her legs for him, guiding him, begging him to push inside her.  
"Randall..."  
A stifled cry left him as this happened, and he stilled for a moment, a rush of emotion filling him. His movement was measured, gentle, as if he was terrified of hurting her, raising her hips, she whimpered beneath him, urging him deeper. He knew he would not last, it had been so long since he had made love, or even touched himself, his release building quickly, body on fire, neck straining, heart pounding in his chest. Bel too, quickly felt her first throes of climax and it pushed him over the edge.  
"My angel, my angel."  
Gasping, he fell forward, weight on her, head close to her shoulder, she held him through the waves that pulsed from him and afterwards as he eased down.  
He was weepy and apologetic, kissing her face and mouth over and over. Saying her name and speaking endearments into the curve of her ear.

They lay for a long time, just holding each other. Warm and satisfied. Safe and secure.  
Neither spoke. Words were unnecessary.

It snowed all day, without ceasing. There was no going anywhere. They ate, they drank tea , curled together on the sofa, listening to the wireless. Dick Barton, Special Agent on The Light Programme.  
By mid-afternoon it was almost dark. Randall was dozing, contented.  
Bel left him to rest, she had reached a momentous decision. She sat at the dining table with pen and paper. The heartfelt letter she wrote to her employers, laid out her plans. It was with regret that she would be unable to resume her post, family matters had intervened and she needed them to be her focus at the present time, and for the foreseeable future.  
It occurred to her that some of her colleagues would probably think she'd allowed herself to fall pregnant, by someone she'd slept with on her way up to promotion, and was disappearing while it was dealt with, but she didn't care.  
She sealed the envelope and placed it safely in the side pocket of her handbag.  
The kettle boiled, she made more tea. Randall opened his eyes as she carried in the tray. He looked rested, calm but still in disbelief. She set down the tray and he reached for her. Perching on the edge of the sofa, she bent and kissed him, her hair falling forwards over her face.  
"Hey, sleepyhead."  
He gave a slight smile.  
"I feel...light as air!" He said.  
"You look like the cat that got the cream!" She grinned," you didn't even take your glasses off!"  
"All the better to see you with, Red Riding Hood..." He laughed. "Can we do it again?...Please?"  
"Whatever you say, Mr. Wolf!" she replied, with a giggle.  
He grabbed her then, turning her so that she was beneath him on the sofa, kissing her feverishly, fervently, passionately.  
"Hey! Mr...Slow down...there's no rush!" She whispered.  
She reached down between their bodies to stroke him, and he groaned, pushing against her leg,  
"Easy, tiger," she felt for his hand, and placed it where she wanted him to touch her, he caught on quickly, clever boy, and she was soon moaning with desire.  
He was whispering to her, in French, words of love, need, devotion. The words tipped her over and he came with her, the sinews in his neck, taut as wire, mouth open, crying out.

That night she did not go to her bed in the spare room. Instead they curled in his bed together.  
Randall was exhausted, so much emotional energy had he expended in the last two days. Sleep came quickly but it was not long before he began to dream again. He had taken no pill that evening before settling down, and the vision was more vivid than ever.  
It always began with a darkness, black and impenetrable, it gave him a feeling of suffocation. Bel was aware of a change in his breathing pattern. Immediately she clasped him to her. She repeated her actions from before, stroking his head, or face, soothing him and humming a tune to him quietly. It seemed work rapidly, he sighed, deeply, shifted into her embrace and began to calm. For him, in that dream state, the solid blackness seemed to turn to smoke, and begin to dissolve, when he felt her touch and heard her voice, reaching into his subconscious mind. The mist would billow and curl and melt away, to be replaced by a warm yellow light. Not harsh or bright and abrasive, but peaceful and soporific. Making him feel that he was sinking gently into a place where pain and hurt could not follow. It was the first night he had slept, without medication and without waking in terror for a very, very long time.

A quick word about 4711 Eau de Cologne, an iconic fragrance for decades, my grandmother always wore it. It was an affordable perfume and extremely popular in the fifties. Even the bottle it came in was a well known shape and label. Feel free to google it!


	9. Chapter 9 Adventure

To be whole after such a long time. To be loved, and to be together despite everything. Randall and Bel have a future. But they must go in search of it, it will not come to them...

Randall, I feel sure, would not be at ease with a permanent arrangement to live 'in sin' with Bel, as an unmarried couple. In the fifties this would have been very unusual and universally frowned upon. Bel, would suffer greatly in any polite society when it became known that she and Randall were unwed. Particularly in view of their ages. She would have been one step up from a whore, and Randall, would be similarly derided for keeping a mistress. Despite the fact that neither may particularly care for populist opinion, I still feel that with a piece of paper and a ring on her finger, it would at least give her status and security. Randall, barring catastrophe, would probably die before Bel, and she would be better placed for her future as his wife, or widow, having no legal status as a mistress, at that time.

CHAPTER NINE

ADVENTURE.

The thaw came, almost overnight, turning the roads to slush and making driving difficult. They took the Austin into St. Merryn for supplies. Stamping off their boots as they entered the village Post Office and grocery shop.  
"Morning Mr. Brown."  
The post mistress, Mrs Jones, was a round jolly lady, with a thick mop of grey hair.  
Randall nodded and asked if there was any post. There was no postal delivery to the Lighthouse and his letters were kept there for him to collect.  
From behind her counter, Mrs. Jones eyed Bel suspiciously.  
"Morning, Miss."  
"Good morning!" She replied brightly," thank heavens the snow has gone...may I have a first class stamp please?"  
Randall, meanwhile, was gathering cheese, bread and other comestibles into a basket.  
"Don't forget, we need cocoa." She said, turning to address him.  
Mrs. Jones raised an eyebrow. Bel ignored her and handed over the letter she had previously written. Randall did not notice.  
They paid for the goods, and were on the point of leaving, when she turned to the post mistress again,  
"Oh, by the way," she smiled, " I'm staying with Mr. Brown, at the Lighthouse, there may be some correspondence for me too, Miss Rowley, could you keep it for me please?"  
With a scandalised expression, Mrs. Jones jotted down her name. Bel made a point of taking Randall's arm as they left.

The days remained cold but bright. They walked together, sometimes for miles. The comfort of her holding his arm, or his hand, the warmth of her beside him at night, were pleasures that Randall never thought to feel ever again.

Kissing her, caressing her beautiful skin, touching her, and feeling her touch in return, being at one with her, body and soul, chasing away the dark thoughts and the painful memories that had haunted him, waking and sleeping.

She was his angel, and he worshipped her.

Finally she confessed to him, that she'd written the letter. At first it disturbed him, he knew how driven she was, when he'd worked with her. Wasn't this sacrifice too much? Freddie's death changed all that, she explained. It made her realise that there was more to life. What she really wanted, she now had.

The subject of travel came up one evening as they sat cozily in front of the fire. Winston asleep on the hearth rug, wireless playing softly.

"Randall, couldn't we go away, together? Travel to Europe. I'd like that."

Even with his new found confidence, it was early days for him, and he was unsure. It was true he had money, and no need to work. In fact he doubted he could cope with work at the present time anyway. He shared these thoughts with her.

"There's no rush, we don't have to pack up and leave tomorrow! We'll go the day after tomorrow!"

He laughed, drawing her closer.

When he'd left for Spain in the thirties, as a young man, he packed a bag and left without a second thought. His parents had been devastated; their only son, Civil War on the horizon, War with Germany looming, danger at every turn. They thought to never see him again. They'd supported him nevertheless. Of course they knew nothing of Lix, nor his child, and he would never have confided in them. He returned from War a changed man. Mr. and Mrs. Brown never got their son back, instead they received a hollow shell. Distant and detached. It broke his mother's heart. There was no attempt on his part to reforge a relationship with them, or anyone else, for that matter. But they never abandoned him, or shut him out, and they did their best to help him. The most up to date Doctor available, the newest treatments, all in vain really. They'd died in the knowledge that he would probably never be the same again. And now here he was, with a beautiful young woman curled at his side, loving him, he worshipping her. Able to feel, that, by some miracle, his life was not over.

His parents were gone now, Bel with no family...

There was nothing to keep them in England at all. They could go where they pleased, for as long as they wanted. It was a liberating feeling.

"If we waited a little, just to see how I'm going to be...I don't want you to be saddled with a wreck of a human being, toting me round Europe with you. I don't want you to be my nurse-maid either. Also, I would have certain business arrangements to make before we could leave..."

"You mean you would actually consider it? Us travelling together? You would actually leave everything and just go?"

"Well, I've done it before, so I can do it again."

Her face became animated.

"Randall, it would be wonderful, to share it all with you..."

"I would have certain proviso's to make, mind you." He stroked her shining, excited face," we cannot travel as we are, unmarried, it wouldn't be right."

"Is that your roundabout way of proposing to me? It's not very romantic!"

"Come to bed and I'll show you romantic...and a proper proposal!" He replied, grinning. He pulled her up from the sofa and led her towards his bedroom.

Arrangements were in place. The Lighthouse was to be let. Winston was going to stay with Randall's neighbour.

Everything was packed and ready. Randall managed a whole month without taking pills to help him sleep. The dreams still came, but with Bel there, he was not so afraid, and he was learning, very slowly, to cope, as long as she was beside him, to ease him through what he had always faced alone, up until now. He discovered her amazing strength, her tenacity, the enormous power of her attachment to him.

Going back to London for a short time, would be a challenge, a huge test, of how far he'd come.

A date was booked. Randall was insistent. Bel's reputation was important to him. He refused to tolerate the looks down the noses, the sneers, the comments; not to her, not to his angel, he could not bear it, even if she could.

For want of someone better, Bel contacted Hector Madden. They'd not seen each other for quite a while, but he had done amazingly well. He was now a father, and he had kicked the booze, the change in him was marked. 'Fatherhood will do that to you, she thought.'

He met her for coffee, one morning, whilst Randall was occupied with his solicitor.

"You look, well," he said smiling and kissing her cheek.

"To what do I owe this unexpected pleasure?"

"Thank you for meeting me after all this time." she said, "I have a favour to ask you Hector...well, you and Marnie actually."

He looked at her quizzically, wondering what she could possibly want from him.

"I'm getting married!" she dropped her bombshell, " only a registry office thing, but we need witnesses, and I really didn't want total strangers...I didn't know who to ask. So I wondered if you could help?"

"Wow, that is NOT what I expected." He laughed.

"Well, well, fancy that...the little career woman, getting hitched! 'Course I'll help! Who's the lucky fella?"

"Um...well he'll be joining us shortly, so you'll meet him." She smiled.

The swing door of the coffee house opened some fifteen minutes later, to admit Randall. Bel rose to her feet, and went to him, kissing his cheek tenderly and taking his hand in hers.

"Good Lord!" Exclaimed Hector, " Well, I never! Randall Brown, you dark horse you!" He laughed heartily and shook Randall strongly by the hand, clapping him on the back.

Randall winced.

His eyes roamed from one to the other, incredulous. He saw Bel's face, flushed with happiness and love, he saw Randall, bashful, but smiling at her, his eyes shining. The stillness and reserve that his former boss had always possessed, seemed to still be there, but somehow enhanced. Both of them together...they _shone_!

" Well, I'll be..." He said, shaking his head, " I'm so very happy, for you both, I really am."

So it was as a foursome, that they entered the Registry Office a week later at the appointed time. It was a clinical affair, to say the least. No frills. Over in a matter of minutes. Randall in his best suit, a rose in his buttonhole, Bel in a stylish Royal Blue two piece costume, her mother's broach at her breast, with a little pill-box hat, perfectly complimenting her blonde hair.

As they spoke their vows, she looked so radiant, and Randall, so proud of her. Watching her so adoringly.

Afterwards they went to The Ritz for the afternoon tea dance. Hector's treat, as a wedding present. Randall finally got to show off his foxtrot...but he preferred the waltz. He was such a beautiful dancer. The band was playing a Glenn Miller number, 'At Last'...

"This is very appropriate for today Mrs. Brown," he whispered, into Bel's ear, kissing her tenderly..

At last

My love has come along

My lonely days are over

And life is like a song

At last

The skies above are blue

My heart was wrapped up in clover

The night I looked at you

I found a dream, that I could speak to

A dream that I can call my own

I found a thrill to press my cheek to

A thrill that I have never known

You smiled, you smiled

Oh and then the spell was cast

And here we are in heaven

for you are mine...

At Last

He held her extra close for this one. "Have you any idea how much I love you?"

Bel, smiled and they kissed again.

Hector and Marnie, exchanged a glance.

"I never would have thought it!"

"Me neither...but look at them, just tell me they're not right for each other."

"I think it's wonderful, they look SO happy, bless them both!"

She squeezed Hector's hand in her own.

Randall asked Marnie to dance when Bel sat down and off she went to be whirled around the floor with great aplomb.

Bel and Hector sat watching.

"So...Randall?...how did that happen?" He asked.

"Oh, I don't know, it just did!" She turned to him," I love him more than my life, Hector, he is the bravest man I've ever known. He's a dear."

"Well, he's certainly besotted with you! That's plain to see!" He replied. "Bit of a sobersides for you though, isn't he?"

"Not really, he's a bit awkward in company sometimes, but he's not like that with me. There's an awful lot to him that people don't know." She gave an indulgent smile as she watched him twirling Marnie around.

"I hope he makes you happy." Hector said, touching her hand.

"Oh, he does, Hector, truly he does!"

Travelling. Not so much a honeymoon, more an Odyssey. The Golden Arrow, London to Paris Express. The Venice-Simplon Orient Express. Italy, cradle of the Renaissance; Florence, Venice, Rome...warm sunshine, delicious food. Frescos, Michelangelo, a loggia in Tuscany. Gondola ride, The Bridge of Sighs, the Grand Canal. They spent a month there, moving from city to city, just drinking it in, enjoying the sights and each other.

Balmy nights, when all they would do was make love. Passionate exploration, each discovering the other. Waves of lust tempered by gentle caresses. Delight at skin upon skin. Dreams banished. Days full of light, nights full of sensual sweetness, no time for bad dreams.

They moved on to Greece; temples and ancient cities, wonders untold. An olive grove villa, bluest skies imaginable, relaxed and happy. Laughter... Randall laughing as she'd never heard him before, chest aching, stomach moving, shoulders shaking...a wonderful sound.

Stepping aboard the ship, through Suez to Egypt. Pharaoh's and tombs, ancient beyond imagination. Baking hot Cairo. Shimmering mirage in the sand at the Pyramids.

Leaning upon his shoulder as they journeyed onwards, his head bending to kiss her.

His angel.

He took her to Madrid, Barcelona, Córdoba...even the memories there, did not phase him. He had a new life now, a new love, a new purpose. If he thought of Lix at all, it was to feel sorry for her, that they'd both been such fools.

Eventually, as she guessed they might, they reached Paris.

It was here that they settled. It was here that they built their lives. An apartment not far from the Tuileries. Street cafes, music, art, love and life.

Bel eventually working for the same television company and news programme that Randall had worked on prior to The Hour. She became, in time, one of their best producers. Randall still straightened chairs, aligned pens, put books in height order, but that was just what he did, and Bel accepted that. He still retained that self possession, that stillness, but now it was punctuated with smiles and fun.

M. and Mme. Brun, were well liked and respected. No one in France, commented on their ages, no one much cared. The French attitude to love was not reserved, or judgemental, as in England. Love was love, simple as that.

They had no base in London now, they rarely went there. Their destination of choice, when in England, was The Lighthouse. It was here they retreated when the programme was on hiatus and when even Paris became too much. To the Lighthouse. The place where it all began.

Where they could walk for hours and not meet a soul. The ceaseless sound of the waves on the rocks below, the cry of the gulls. Where Randall had first learned how to trust, and Bel discovered that love can help conquer even the darkest of dreams. The place where all the hurt and pain of so many years had finally been released, and from where their love was first explored, first realised and first consummated. It would always have a place in both their hearts.

Now, revisiting it, was like coming home, even though Paris was their home now and their lives were there.

It was the place where Bel first shared the news with her husband, that she was carrying their child.

The place they would _always_ return for many years to come. To the Lighthouse.

That's the end folks. It's been a good ride. I hope you've enjoyed it and it wasn't too over the top. Sorry if I disappoint those who like more sexy stuff, I like to leave that to those who write it so much better than I ever could. I feel that although the story ends quite quickly, there was little more to be said, and dragging the story out would make it less readable. It's been fun to write and involved quite a lot of research in my massive collection of history books, and pumping my mum for historical accuracy on the fifties!


End file.
